Gordon Craig | Page 3

with the inspection,
confident of myself, I slipped the card in my pocket, and went out. It
was still daylight, but there was a long walk before me. Chestnut Street
was across the river, in the more aristocratic section. I had hauled
lumber there the first day of my work, and recalled its
characteristics--long rows of stone-front houses, with an occasional
residence standing alone, set well back from the street. It was dark
enough when I got there, and began seeking the number. I followed the
block twice in uncertainty, so many of the houses were dark, but finally
located the one I believed must be 108. It was slightly back from the
street, a large stone mansion, surrounded by a low coping of brick and
with no light showing anywhere. I was obliged to mount the front steps

before I could assure myself this was the place. The street was deserted,
except for two men talking under the electric light at the corner, and the
only sound arose from the passing of a surface car a block away. The
silence and loneliness got upon my nerves, but, without yielding, I
followed the narrow cement walk around the corner of the house. Here
it was dark in the shadow of the wall, yet one window on the first floor
exhibited a faint glow at the edge of a closely drawn curtain.
Encouraged slightly by this proof that the house was indeed occupied, I
felt my way forward until I came to some stone steps, and a door. I
rapped on the wood three times, my nerves tingling from excitement.
There was a moment's delay, so that I lifted my hand again, and then
the door opened silently. Within was like the black mouth of a cave,
and I involuntarily took a step backward.
"This you, Craig?"
"Yes," I answered, half recognizing the cautious voice.
"All right then--come in. There is nothing to fear, the floor is level."
I stepped within, seeing nothing of the man, and the door was closed
behind me. The sharp click of the latch convinced me it was secured by
a spring lock.
"Turn on the light," said the voice at my side sharply. Instantly an
electric bulb glowed dazzling overhead, and I blinked, about half
blinded by the sudden change.
CHAPTER II
THE CASE OF PHILIP HENLEY
It was a rather narrow hallway and, with the exception of a thick carpet
underfoot, unfurnished. Neale, appearing somewhat more slender in
evening clothes, smiled at me genially, showing a gold-crowned tooth.
"Did not chance to hear your motor," he said easily, taking a cigarette
case from his vest pocket. "You are a little late; what was it, tire

trouble?"
"I came afoot," I answered, not overly-cordial. "It was farther across
town than I supposed."
"Well, you 're here, and that is the main point. Have a cigarette. No?"
as I shook my head. "All right, there are cigars in the room yonder--the
second door to your left."
I entered where he indicated. It was a spacious apartment, evidently a
library from the book-shelves along the walls, and the great writing
table in the center. The high ceiling, and restful wall decorations were
emphasized by all the furnishings, the soft rug, into which the feet sank
noiselessly, the numerous leather-upholstered chairs, the luxurious
couch, and the divan filling the bay-window. The only light was under
a shaded globe on the central table, leaving the main apartment in
shadows, but the windows had their heavy curtains closely drawn. The
sole occupant was a man in evening dress, seated in a high-backed
leather chair, facing the entrance, a small stand beside him, containing
a half-filled glass, and an open box of cigars. Smoke circled above his
head, his eyes upon me as I entered. With an indolent wave of one hand
he seemingly invited me to take a vacant chair to the right, while Neale
remained standing near the door.
This new position gave me a better view of his face, but I could not
guess his age. His was one of those old-young faces, deeply lined,
smooth-shaven, the hair clipped short, the flesh ashen-gray, the lips a
mere straight slit, yielding a merciless expression; but the eyes,
surveying me coldly, were the noticeable feature. They looked to be
black, not large, but deep set, and with a most peculiar gleam, almost
that of insanity, in their intense stare. Even as he lounged back amid the
chair cushions I could see that he was tall, and a bit angular, his hand,
holding a cigar, evidencing unusual strength. He must have stared at
me a full minute, much as a jockey would examine a horse, before he
resumed smoking.
"He will do very well, Neale," he decided, with a glance across at the